A Talk Over Tea
by FFcrazy15
Summary: "I doubt there's a single person in this camp who hasn't had that sort of experience. We miss the people back home, so we dream of them, but part of us still remembers we're in a war zone." A late-night conversation leads to some ironic understandings. F*L*O*C*K 4077 piece. (T for mentions of blood.)


Disclaimer: don't own, don't profit, no copyright infringement intended.

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><p><strong>M*A*S*H<strong>

He shot up in bed, chest heaving, skin covered with a cold sheen of sweat. Hawkeye clutched the ratty old blanket to his chest as he gulped for air, shaking like a leaf caught in a storm.

The dream again, the same for the third night in a row. Terror surged through his veins, adrenaline still making every neuron scream at him to run, _run,_ before it was too late, although he knew there was nowhere to run to. Slowly, the trembling began to ease and his breathing evened out again, although the after-effects of the nightmare still remained.

He looked around the Swamp. B.J. and Charles were both still asleep. He must not have made any noise out loud, then, although in the dream he'd been screaming like a banshee. He felt the blanket, his bed, his own clammy cheeks to make sure this was real, that he wasn't in another dream. Everything felt real, in the physical sort of way that assures one he is in fact in the world of the living, and he lay back down, heart still beating forcefully.

It was just a nightmare. Unreality. He closed his eyes, but the gory images of the dream filled his head again, and his eyelids popped back open. For several minutes he lay there, staring up at the ceiling, trying not to see or think of anything, but rest did not return and he found himself just as much awake as when he'd first woken up.

With a sigh, he pushed the blanket off of him and sat up, stretching. He looked around the Swamp again, uncertain what to do. Turning a light on would certainly wake them up, but he didn't want to just sit there in the dark with nothing to do to take his mind off it. After a few moments of sitting there awkwardly, he stood up, shrugged on his bathrobe and slipped into his sandals, before walking out of the tent.

The night air was cool and refreshing, even calming in a sense. The sky was clear, revealing the shining white moon and bright stars. It was really a good night for a walk, which he took gratefully, pacing his way restlessly around the compound. He started off in the direction of the OR and Potter's office, which only took him a minute or so. When he turned around, he noticed that one of the other tents was lit by a warm yellowy light. Someone was still up.

Interested, he walked back towards the bunk tents and found it was Mulcahy's light that it was on. He knocked lightly on the door, uncertain if it was the right thing to do but not wanting to be alone.

There was noise inside the tent, and a moment later the door opened. "Hawkeye?" Fr. Mulcahy said, surprised. He, too, was dressed in his striped bathrobe, as well as a pair of boxers and a drab-green T-shirt. "It's late; what are you still doing up?"

"I could ask you the same question. Can I come in? If I'm not interrupting anything."

"Oh, no. You can come in." He moved aside to let the doctor inside. The light, which was on, was not the whitish bulb on the ceiling, but a little lamp on the priest's desk, upon which a number of papers were spread haphazardly, as well as a Bible and a small black prayer book. The desk chair was pulled out, and the bed's blanket was wrinkled and pushed back, as if Mulcahy, too, had had a restless night. "Please, take a seat. I'm sorry it's so messy."

"Don't worry about it." He sat down on the bed while the man stacked the papers and closed the Bible, marking his place carefully with a red ribbon. "What are you still doing up?"

"Ah, well, some nights I have trouble sleeping. I stay up and read the Bible, pray the night hours, write condolence letters, that sort of thing." He gave the doctor a mild smile. "Mind just doesn't want to quit running some days, I suppose."

"Yeah. Like a hamster on a wheel," Hawkeye agreed.

"An apt description." He turned the chair around. "What about yourself?"

"Huh?"

"Why are you up so late- or early, as it were?"

"Oh." He shifted a bit uncomfortably and shrugged. "You know, just… can't sleep."

"Ah." There was something about Mulcahy's tone that told Hawkeye the priest suspected more, but he left it at that. "Tea?"

"Eh, I'm more of a charcoal-burnt coffee sort of guy, but sure."

Mulcahy chuckled and poured him a shot in a spare mug, handing it to him. Hawkeye took a sip. Earl Grey. "You said something about condolence letters?"

"Oh, that," the priest said, taking a drink from his own cup of tea. "Well, seeing how busy Col. Potter is, I write the letters home to all the families of all Catholic boys who don't make it- let their loved ones know they received Last Rites, that sort of thing."

"Sounds rough."

"It was more difficult to start out with, but now I think it's something of a blessing. After all, I can't imagine what it'd be like to write home to the family of someone who-" He stopped short, glancing at Hawkeye awkwardly and clearing his throat. "Well, anyway."

The edges of Hawkeye's lips curled up into an ironic smile. "Said too much?"

"I'm sorry, Hawkeye," Mulcahy said apologetically. "Sometimes I forget I'm not always surrounded by fellow Catholics anymore."

"Don't worry about it. Besides, I'd like to think any… unfortunate letters home to my father are in good hands."

Mulcahy shuddered almost unconsciously and crossed himself. "Let's pray that day never comes."

There was a moment's pause, quiet but not uncomfortable, during which Hawkeye took another drink from his tea. "You know," he commented, "I think this is the first time I've drunk anything other than gin, coffee or powdered milk in at least three months."

"I think you chew the last two," Mulcahy quipped with a smile. Hawkeye chuckled and nodded. "So," the priest said, setting his mug down and leaning forward slightly. "Care to tell me why you're having troubles sleeping?"

Hawkeye gave a joyless grin. "Straight to the point, huh?"

"Sorry. It's part of my job."

"Eh, well…" He shrugged and then sighed. "My subconscious doesn't exactly agree with me on the meaning of rest."

"Nightmares?"

"Bingo."

"I'm sorry," Mulcahy said genuinely.

"Hey, win some, lose some." He took another drink of the tea. It was almost gone, so he picked the kettle up off the stove and poured some more. "If I'm being honest, Father," Hawkeye said, sitting back down, "Some days I don't know if I'm winning as many battles as I'm losing."

"You mean the war up here," Mulcahy said, tapping his temple with his middle finger.

"Yeah."

"Well, if I have any advice it's that you oughtn't be too hard on yourself; everyone has ups and downs, and sometimes here it seems the downs are… well, lower than in other places."

"No kidding," Hawkeye sighed. "Sometimes I wish there was a button I could hit inside my head, like the switch on an alarm clock, yannow? Even my sleep can't be peaceful; it starts out all nice and normal- and I mean really normal, like I'm back home and everything's fine- and then the war comes along and messes it up."

"I know," Fr. Mulcahy said, voice sounding a little weary himself.

"Do you ever get them?" Hawkeye asked cautiously. "Nightmares, I mean."

"Yes," the priest admitted.

"What about?"

He shrugged. "Mostly people I know. Boys from the CYO, people I knew in the seminary, Cathy… she's in a lot of them…" He trailed off, and then shook himself and said apologetically, "I'm sorry, I don't mean to detract from what you were saying."

"Hey, better your misery than mine."

"Yes, well…" His eyes grew very distant and veiled. "They're not exactly… the most pleasant of reunions."

Hawkeye nodded, uncertain what to say. Finally, he worked up the courage to ask, "Was, uh, was that yours? Your nightmare, I mean. Was it Cathy?" Mulcahy didn't answer, and the doctor added quickly, "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"No, no, it's… it's alright." Though he didn't want to speak, he thought it might help Hawkeye open up about his own problems. "We were in the schoolyard, just children again, maybe eight or nine," he said finally. "I was playing kickball, and Cathy was playing hopscotch. I was annoyed because my team was losing and everyone knew Cathy was the best kicker in the school, but she'd wanted to play with the other girls instead. I'd just started to walk over to talk to her when I heard the whistle and turned."

Hawkeye watched his face change, eyes growing distant and unsettled. "There was an explosion on the other side of the schoolyard, where I'd been standing. A shell. Two of the boys were blown to bits. Suddenly I was myself again- the way I am now, I mean, an adult. I tried to shepherd the other children, get them away from the falling bombs, but I couldn't get to Cathy." His voice broke off suddenly. "I'd just caught sight of her when the bomb hit."

"Next to her?"

Mulcahy nodded thickly. "When the dust cleared I ran over to her. Her whole chest was blown open. Blood was everywhere. I knelt down beside her, and she asked me why… why I hadn't saved her." He stopped, and then said woodenly, "And then she died."

The tent was silent. Finally, Hawkeye said, "What happened next?"

"I woke up," Mulcahy said simply.

"And found yourself in this nightmare," Hawkeye concluded. The priest gave a thin, joyless smile. "I thought I was the only one."

"I doubt there's a single person in this camp who hasn't had that sort of experience. We miss the people back home, so we dream of them, but part of us still remembers we're in a war zone."

"Yeah," he agreed soberly. "I know what you mean."

There was a moment's hesitance, and then Mulcahy said gently, "Hawkeye… if you want to talk, I've found I'm pretty good at listening."

Hawkeye smiled a little at that, but it faded too quickly. "…I was in a car," he said finally, lowly. "Driving home from the airport, you know? I was all dressed up in my uniform, I had my bags, whole shebang. I was heading home. And I just kept thinking about how great it would be to see my dad again, how happy he'd be to see me… I wasn't even paying attention to anything outside the window.

"The car stopped and I picked up my bags and got out. When I looked around, everything was just… gone."

"Gone?" the priest questioned.

"Leveled is a better word. Every house on my block had been destroyed. Some were still burning, little fires here and there. The air was full of smoke, and all around on the ground and in the streets there were… bodies, everywhere. Bloody and full of shell shrapnel and torn to bits by the explosions. Every single one was dead. I started looking for my dad, checking every body. I _had_ to find him." His voice was rising. "I had to, okay? I had to know if he was alive or- or- B-but he wasn't there. He wasn't anywhere. I couldn't _find him!"_

He broke off, hands shaking, nearly hyperventilating. He wiped his eyes. After several moments, when he'd managed to get his breathing down to normal, he muttered, "Sorry."

"Don't be; it's quite alright."

"Do you think it ever gets better?"

Mulcahy hesitated. "Honestly?" Hawkeye nodded. "I don't know," he admitted truthfully. "I hope so."

"Well, I sure as hell hope I'm not stuck like this forever."

The priest nodded and said quietly, "That makes two of us."

Neither wanted to voice the unspoken "what if." A long silence passed, and then finally Hawkeye whispered, "God, Father, what are we going to do?"

Mulcahy didn't answer for a moment, before he looked over and said, "Well, I don't know about you, Hawkeye, but I'm going to get up tomorrow, say Mass, eat breakfast, and get on with my day."

Hawkeye smiled wanly. "Yeah. I guess that's about as much as we can do, isn't it?"

"Just about." He stood up again and reached for the kettle. "Another cup of tea?"

Hawkeye considered it, and then shrugged. "Sure. Pour me a shot."

The kettle was empty by morning.


End file.
